


commercial company

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>truck stop prostitute au, because why not? </p><p>harry gets lost halfway across america. improbably, nick finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	commercial company

**Author's Note:**

> fictional, obviously!!!
> 
> this came out of that picture of harry after he got his motorcycle towed! HE WAS THE SADDEST LITTLE BEAN.

On Thursday he gets dropped off somewhere in Iowa. Little town - only one gas station, with a Subway attached. A bar, a minuscule grocery store. He eats a foot-long sandwich - turkey, cheese, mayo, wheat bread, lots of spinach, please - sitting in the tiny dining section of the gas station, his feet stretched out on the cheap plastic booth, flipping through one of his last books. 

He needs a shower and a good night’s sleep, so he walks across the highway to a Days Inn, checks in for the night. He’s got two hundred in cash in his back pocket, and the room costs him $49, breakfast included. Not bad, that. It’s the nice thing about these little towns, the way they  _need_ customers, need people filling the beds. 

Harry grabs a yellowing newspaper off a table by the front desk and goes to his room. Showers, scrubs himself clean under lukewarm water, using the mini bottles of thin white shampoo and conditioner. 

His room’s on the second floor, and the window opens onto the parking lot. He keeps the curtains open, curls up in bed and reads the newspaper, knees tucked up and hair drying in curls that’ll tangle terribly if he falls asleep too soon. 

In the morning he wakes up with ink from the newspaper smeared on his face and his hair an awful mess, and he has to spend a good ten minutes in front of the dingy hotel mirror yanking out every tangled bit. 

He checks out at 11, waves at the unimpressed front desk lady, and walks across the highway again to wait for - someone. 

—

Harry sits at the edge of the curb behind the gas station and watches people arrive, but no one catches his interest until he sees a man walking into the Subway/gas station, shoving his sunglasses up his head, jingling his keys in one hand. There’s something about his walk that makes Harry take pause, and then stand up. 

He runs a hand through his hair and pushes his way inside, bells tinkling on the door.

The bloke’s at the counter of the Subway, so Harry waits, lurks behind a row of ancient VHS tapes until the man sits down with his sandwich. 

Alright. Might as well, right? 

"Hi," Harry says, sliding into the booth and offering the guy a grin. He’s younger than most of the others - dark hair and big dark eyes, freckles across the bridge of his nose. Something about the set of his jaw is - friendly. Open. 

Not that that means shit. Harry knows by now. A friendly face doesn’t mean shit, when it comes down to it. 

The man looks up from his phone, eyebrows raising. “Hi.” 

Harry licks his lips. Fuck it, right? He’s got nothing to lose, unless the guy is a cop, which he seriously doubts. 

"Care for, um, commercial company?" he says, with only a little tremble to his voice just from doing it face to face instead of over the CB. Desperate times, and all that. Harry definitely qualifies as desperate, at this point.

The man’s face lights up. “Are you British?” 

Shit. He should’ve tried to cover it up. He’s getting alright at a bland sort of pan-American accent, by now. 

"Um," he says, trying not to wince visibly. "Yeah, I am." 

"Me too!" the man says, grinning, and yeah- now that Harry listens he’s got a Northern twang to his voice. It was so out of place here that he could barely process it. 

"Oh, wicked," Harry says, mind racing. For some reason it’s making his cheeks flush, the fact that this driver is from his country. Like- he’s betraying the homefront, or something, sitting in a truck stop Subway propositioning older men. "Um-"

"Where you from?" 

Harry looks away, from the bloke’s inquisitive gaze. 

"S’not really important," he says, trying to sound vague but friendly. "So, are you staying here tonight?" 

The man looks a bit confused. “I - uh. Yeah, guess so. I could.” 

Harry nods, smiling again, digging his fingers into his own thigh under the table. Come on, now. Take the fucking hint. 

"D’you maybe want some company?" he says, quietly, just as the door of the gas station jingles. Two big guys, backwards baseball caps. One’s got a plug of chewing tobacco wedged in his right cheek. "T-tonight, I mean?" 

The man’s eyes narrow, and then he lets out a huff of breath. “Ohh, god, you’re a- oh, I’ve heard about this. Duh, I  _read_  about this. You’re um, a prostitute?” 

It’s too loud. Harry looks over at the guys again, biting his bottom lip. British and loud and apparently clueless, this bloke is. 

Harry shouldn’t be taking this kind of chance. The guy without chew in his cheek is looking over at him, vaguely interested, vaguely familiar, like maybe he’s had Harry before. That’ll be better, anyway. 

"Alright, thanks," he says, tugging back and picking up his bag. "Nice to meet you." 

He’s halfway up when the door opens again and a cop comes in, gun glinting on his hip. 

Harry sinks back into the booth, eyes wide, and the man across from him says, “Here, take this. Try not to look so guilty.” 

He’s pushing a packet of crisps across the table to Harry, flicking his eyes over to the cop and then smiling easy and fake. 

Harry takes one, fingers shaking a bit, and bites into it, keeping one eye on the cop and trying to seem natural, like he’s just sat here eating dinner with his - friend? Uncle? The guy’s too young to be his dad. 

"I’ll buy you another," he says, just in case. The guy might want a handjob for a packet of crisps, Harry’s got no idea. He’s been asked worse for less. 

The man waves it off. “No worries, mate. Go for it. What’s your name?” 

"What’s yours?" Harry says back, stuffing two crisps in his mouth. Fuck, that’s really good. Barbecue-flavored. He hasn’t had dinner yet - thought he could fit in a quickie beforehand, maybe treat himself to a burger and chips at the bar down the road instead of yet another five dollar foot long. 

"Nick," the guy says easily. "Grimshaw. I’m from Manchester. Oldham, to be specific." 

"The hell are you doing here?" Harry asks, licking his fingers. 

"It’s actually kind of a long story," Nick says. "Could tell me your name, first." 

Harry crunches down on another crisp, looking at him stone-faced. 

"C’monnn," Nick says, plucking a green pepper out of his sandwich and dropping it into his mouth. He has ridiculously long fingers. "I’ll buy you something." 

 _Something_ , huh? Harry looks over at the gas station store. The cop’s at the counter, not looking at them. 

"Like what," he says idly, putting a crisp in his mouth. 

Nick laughs. “Sweets? I don’t know. How old are you, huh?” 

"Legal," Harry says vaguely. "And I want Skittles, please." 

He wants more than that, if Nick’s really got the cash - a sweatshirt, new shoes, some medicine, maybe. He’s got one goal for the month, and that’s to build a little first-aid kit in his backpack. Just in case. He skinned his knee in October, falling out of the passenger seat of a truck -  _pushed_ , his mind reminds him, but he carefully doesn’t think about that bit. It’s silly, but it’s - he needs one. Everyone’s got a first-aid kit. 

He bites his lip in a grin, just thinking about it. Getting to go into the medicine aisle and pick out whatever he wants- plasters and cough syrup and paracetamol. Antiseptic spray! He wants that. He's working on it.

The door jingles as the cop leaves, shortly followed by the two truckers. The store is empty, and Nick looks at him and then stands up, says, “Be back in a minute.” 

Harry eats crisps and watches him at the counter of the store. Nick’s left his phone out on the table, next to his keys. 

He’s kind of an idiot. Too trusting by far. 

He comes back with a plastic bag, shakes it out onto the tabletop. Skittles, Starburst, a pack of Reese’s, a couple chocolate bars. 

"Know how long it’s been since I had proper sweets?" Nick says, grabbing a bar of chocolate and unwrapping it, sandwich pushed off to the side. " _Ages_.” 

Harry takes the Skittles, rips the bag open and shakes a few into his palm. 

"Alright," Nick says, mouth half-full. "So what’s your name?" 

He could still lie. He might as well. 

But instead he says, “Harry,” and it feels - weird. He hasn’t said that in a while. 

"Harry." 

Harry nods, flushing a little, chewing another Skittle. 

"Is that a fake name?" Nick asks, wiping chocolate off the side of his mouth. 

"No," Harry says quickly, oddly defensive, and then- like an idiot- he pulls out his ID, shows it to Nick. 

Nick takes it out of his hand, yanks it away and studies it.

"Harry Edward Styles," he says, softly to himself. "Nineteen. New York, huh?" 

"Give it back," Harry says, low, reaching out his hand, and Nick looks at it again and then up at Harry. Puts the ID back into Harry’s hand. 

Harry shoves it back into his pocket, feeling shaky. He shouldn’t have done that. 

"Thanks for the Skittles," he says, grabbing the bag in one hand and fumbling for his backpack. "Have a nice night-" 

"Hey, wait, wait," Nick says, cajoling. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’m curious, alright? You’re Northern by way of New York and you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere America. I just - shit. I’m sorry. I’m a nosy bastard." 

Harry stills. 

"Don’t touch my stuff," he says, low, like a warning. "Okay?" 

"I know, I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have," Nick says, all in a rush. His voice is warm and convincing and homey, with its thick accent. Harry’s chest is clenching at the sound of it. 

"Honestly," Nick continues. "I won’t be such a twat again, promise. Just, like, keep me company? I’ve been so bloody homesick." 

Harry doesn’t say,  _me too_. He just slides back into the booth, reaches across and steals the packet of Starbursts. 

—

"So, want to hear what I’m doing in fuck-knows-where, Iowa?" Nick says an hour later, in the bar down the road. He’s nursing a whiskey-Coke, and Harry’s pleasantly full from a cheeseburger and a plateful of chips with lots of ketchup. He’s sipping from a bottle of water - sealed when he got it. Nick might have a friendly voice, but Harry’s been fooled before. 

Harry shrugs. 

"Ah, well, thanks for the enthusiasm," Nick breathes, mock-offended. "Sure you don’t want a drink?" 

He offers Harry his glass, and Harry shakes his head. 

"Nah, m’alright." 

"Alright, alright, your loss," Nick says, making a face, drinking. "So, anyway. I’ll tell you why I’m here, because obviously I’m not getting much out of you." 

Harry just smiles.

"So," Nick says dramatically, heaving a sigh. "So the thing is, I’m not really, like, a trucker. Or anyone else who’d have business here." 

"You seem  _exactly_  like one,” Harry says, dryly, and Nick snorts. 

"Right? I’m the quintessential American trucker. So laddy, weyyy. Anyway, I’m only here because I’m - I’m actually a reporter." 

He puts his drink down, like he needs to be serious for this. 

"A reporter?" 

"Yeah, for a magazine back home. Sort of like a literary magazine? Online and everything? Pretty well-distributed, anyway, the point is - I was going to write a story on truckers. Do research, ask questions, you know." 

"Why?" Harry says doubtfully. "They’re not really interesting." 

"No, but they  _are_ ,” Nick says, leaning forward, his eyes lighting up. “Fascinating, actually. The whole subculture, like, there’s a whole different language and everything. It’s a bit like my passion, actually, or- or one of them. And I finally convinced my editor to let me do research here.” 

"So you left London to come to Iowa to research  _truckers_ ,” Harry says, trying not to sound judgmental. It’s Nick’s life. And technically Harry is also in the same boat, that boat being the miserable excuse for a town they’re both sitting in right now. 

"It’s only for six months," Nick says, gulping at his drink.  

"Wait," Harry says, feeling his skin go a bit tingly with unease. "So are you gonna write about me?" 

Nick tilts his head to the side, doesn’t answer the question. 

"Nick." Harry grabs his water bottle, fumbles for his backpack. "I’ll leave if that’s what you - that’s why you bought me dinner? So I’d talk to you and you could write a bloody story about it?"  

"No," Nick says, looking at him steadily. "I bought you dinner because you’re Northern, and you seem sweet. The story doesn’t have to have you in it. If you’re willing, I’d like to -" 

"I’m not," Harry says, voice cracking in its urgency. "Willing. No." 

"Okay," Nick says, tipping his glass up to his mouth. "That’s fine, I won’t. Off the record, then." 

Harry sits back on his stool. Nick’s probably done with him, then - if he doesn’t want a blowjob, and he won’t get his precious story. 

"Should probably go," he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Thanks for dinner-" 

"Wait," Nick says, putting a hand over his face, sighing. "Oh god, I’m sorry, alright? I’ve fucked it up a bit. Listen, Harry, I’m not trying to get a story out of you. I honestly wasn’t going to interview any, er. Prostitutes, to be honest. I just like you, yeah? You seem friendly. Good company. I can take a night off, can’t I?" 

Harry’s knee is jiggling. 

"Sit down and let me get you a beer," Nick says, smiling anxiously at Harry through his glasses. "You can open it yourself, make sure I haven’t done anything skeevy to it." 

Harry flushes hot. “I didn’t think you’d do anything-“ 

"It’s alright," Nick says, fishing an ice cube out of his drink. "No offense taken, honestly. I mean, I’m not a date rapist meself, but I can’t blame you for assuming. This place isn’t exactly a paragon of moral virtue." 

Harry laughs despite himself, looks down. Nick’s just, like -  _funny,_ in the way he talks, the way he moves his hands around. He’s alive and quick and funny and so British it makes Harry’s chest feel all tight. 

He didn’t realize how much he missed that til now. 

Nick waves the bartender over, orders a beer. 

"Bottle of the Heineken please," he says. "And one off the tap for me." 

The man behind the counter looks Harry up and down, and then shrugs and disappears. 

"Wicked," Nick breathes, spinning guiltily on his stool and giving Harry a conspiratorial glance. "They’ll serve small children in this place, apparently." 

"I look proper grown-up," Harry says, mildly offended, patting at his face. "I’ve got a mustache." 

"Oh love, you don’t," Nick laughs, eyebrows going up. He touches Harry’s face with one hand, and Harry barely resists flinching away from the touch. 

Nick’s hand is warm and broad and nice-feeling. 

"Nowhere near," Nick says, pulling his hand back and draining his drink. "You look about fifteen. Surprised I haven’t gotten arrested just sitting here with you." 

The bartender drops their drinks off, and Nick takes a deep gulp, ends up with foam all over his upper lip. 

Harry laughs, a little, feeling like something in his chest might boil and bubble over. 

"What?" Nick says, swiping all over his top lip with his tongue. 

Harry shakes his head, cracks open his bottle of beer. 

"So," Nick says, once he’s drained a good third of his pint. "What are you doing here? Vague outlines are alright. Just wondering. Manchester to Iowa, it’s a leap-"

"I’m not from Manchester," Harry says, rubbing at his nose. The bubbles make his nose kind of itchy, sometimes. He doesn’t drink beer a lot. "I’m from Cheshire." 

"Mmm," Nick says, softly. "From Cheshire, then. What brings you here?" 

Harry picks at the label on his beer bottle. 

"Er," he says. "I moved to New York to, uh. Sing in a band. I was shit at it, we broke up after a year. I - I was going to, um. I was going to hitchhike to LA, and like, try to find a job. Acting or singing or sommat." 

He’s not looking at Nick, because it sounds pretty bloody pathetic when he says it all out like that. It’s a stupid fucking plan. That’s what Gemma said to him on the phone before he left, sounding furious and close to tears and so, so far away back in Holmes Chapel.  _That’s a stupid fucking plan, Harry. Stop being stupid and come home_. 

"Guess I never made it to LA," he says, and takes a sip of his beer. 

Nick’s watching him, Harry can tell. Not in the way he’s used to- that slow sort of measuring stare. It’s warmer, gentler.

"How long have you been hooking?" Nick asks, just like  _that_ , and Harry scratches furiously at the sticker on his bottle, with one bitten-off fingernail. Nick can’t just ask it like that. 

And Harry doesn’t - do that exactly, anyway. He gets rides to different places, he goes places, he sees the sights. He just pays with his mouth and his hand and his arse. 

"Couple months, I guess," Harry says, flicking bits of balled-up beer label onto the ground. 

Nick hums. “You been in Iowa all that time?” 

"No, I - I’ve been a bunch of different places," Harry says, oddly defensive. 

"Tell me about some of them." 

Harry looks up at him, eyes narrowing, and Nick flushes, makes a sheepish sound. 

"I’m  _sorry_ , God, I’m such a reporter, I can’t turn it off. Fuck. Sorry.” 

Harry sips his beer. 

"Got family back home?" Nick says, quietly. "Anyone wondering where you are?"

Harry shrugs, carefully blasé. That part’s not for Nick, no matter how nice his face is. 

"Alright," Nick says, reading his face. "Sorry. Feel free to tell me to fuck off if I’m being a nosy arsehole." 

"You’re being a bit of a nosy arsehole," Harry says, and Nick grins wide. 

"I knowww, I’m sorry. Here, can I ask if you still want to go to LA?" 

Harry shrugs again, looking down. He doesn’t even bloody know the answer to that. 

He feels - stuck. Like, the image of it is silly - he got stuck halfway across the wide expanse of America - but it’s true. That’s how he feels. Entirely immobile. 

"Alright," Nick says after a minute. "No questions then. Want to hear about my puppy?" 

Harry nods, biting down a grin, and Nick launches into an explanation of the dog he’ll be getting when he gets back, complete with pictures on his cell phone and breathless descriptions of Nick’s life post-dog. 

"I’ll go on walks all the time," he says, dreamily. "I’ll be like proper healthy. Blokes bloody  _love_  dogs, especially gay blokes in London. It’ll be like a moth to catnip, you know? Wait, is that the expression?” 

"Moth to a flame," Harry interjects, quietly, and Nick grins delightedly at him. 

"Yes, thank you, there it is. Psh, catnip. Mothnip maybe."

"You’re mental," Harry says, ducking his head so Nick won’t see the smile on his face.

"I took a six-month job in the bloody middle of nowhere to study  _truckers,_ oh God I  _am_  insane - I’m insane. I didn’t just take it, I  _pitched_  it, I fought for it. Why did I do this?” 

Nick puts his face in his hands. 

"Sorry," he says, muffled. "Having a minor existential crisis in this bar, right now. I’m sorry you have to witness it." 

Harry just watches him from over the rim of his bottle. 

"Buck up," he says eventually, and Nick peeks at him through his fingers, making a face. 

"Buck up?" 

Harry snorts. “Dunno. S’what my stepdad used to say to me.” 

"I’m uninspired," Nick drawls, draining his beer. "And also a little wobbly. I need bed." 

"Where are you staying?" 

"Ugh, some shitty Days Inn across the highway. My budget is tight, let me tell you." 

Harry nods, checks his watch. It’s past ten. 

It’d be nice for Harry to have a place to sleep. Somewhere inside. If he has to, he can go back to the lot, find somewhere. Someone. 

But it shimmers in his mind, tempting. The idea that he might not need to suck dick to find a place to sleep, tonight. 

Nick’s fumbling for his jacket, and Harry says, thinking quick, “I’ll - I’ll let you put me in your story if you, if you let me stay over with you. Or - or whatever else you want to do, we can do whatever.” 

He feels his cheeks heat. 

Nick looks at him, eyes soft and measured. 

"Do you need a place to sleep?" he says. "Because it’s alright. You don’t have to do anything for it, it’s fine. I’ve got two beds anyway, wouldn’t want one to go to waste." 

Harry’s breath catches hard in his throat, so he just nods, fiercely, and Nick pays the bill, quick and easy, sliding an AmEx onto the receipt and smiling at the bartender. 

Nick takes his arm as they stumble across the highway, whining about his sore legs from driving, the headache he’ll have tomorrow. Harry’s sober but he feels drunk with it - a simmering kind of excitement. A bed, again, and no sex to have, nothing to fake. 

It’s quite strange, that feeling, but it’s strong with Nick. Harry doesn’t have to fake it, in this situation, with this bloke. 

Even if they did something. He feels like he wouldn’t have to fake it. Nick’s arm is strong and warm under his, and Harry couldn’t stop looking at his mouth earlier, and he - he wouldn’t mind, is the thing. If Nick wanted to touch him. 

It won’t get out of his mind, then, and he brushes his teeth and changes into a t-shirt and boxers and splashes water over his face all thinking about the possibility of it. 

It’s hard to process, almost. Because Harry might  _want_  it. He used to want it all the time, but it's flickered away in the past months, the way he used to want his body touched. Now he craves space. He hasn't wanted to come in weeks, he hasn't felt the need. 

Nick takes the bed by the window, curls up on his side with his phone clutched in one hand like a security blanket. His glasses are on the side table. 

Harry stares down at the empty bed he’s meant to sleep in, and then he just - does it. 

He flicks off the light, and crawls into bed next to Nick. The shifts and sighs and smell of him are making Harry’s stomach go shivery with excitement, anticipation, and it’s so new - or old, maybe, old and out of practice - that it makes it hard to breathe. 

Nick shifts tiredly in bed, onto his back, and Harry swallows hard and finds his face in the darkness with one hand, kisses Nick’s mouth. 

Nick sighs into it, sleepy and soft and unaware. He tastes like toothpaste and his lips are slick and it feels so fucking good Harry gets a strange, nostalgic lump in his throat. He hasn’t kissed anyone in ages. 

He runs his hand into Nick’s hair, and Nick tugs back, letting out a rough breath and raising up a little, rubbing at his eyes. 

"Hey," he breathes. "Hey, whoa. Don’t think we should do this." 

"It’s not about money," Harry says blindly, leaning forward again, his mouth open. He’s giving it all away, but it doesn’t feel scary or stupid. Reckless, maybe, but Nick - he trusts Nick. He has no fucking clue why. "Please, it’s not. Please-" 

"Heyy," Nick says again, moving Harry’s face away with one hand, when Harry tries to kiss him again. "I just - I don’t think it’s a good idea-" 

"You’re lonely," Harry says, low and soft. "I can tell you are-" 

"Harry." 

"Me too," Harry whispers, and it comes out shaky. "I am too."

"I know," Nick says, voice small. "But we don’t have to do that kind of thing, you know? We can just be here. Together. Yeah?" 

Harry’s eyes are going hot, prickling, and it’s so  _stupid_ , but he just - Nick doesn’t want him. Nick doesn’t want some truck-stop whore like him, Nick probably thinks he’ll catch something, or get saddled with a prostitute in the passenger’s seat for the next year. He thinks Harry will fuck up his story, and his life, and everything. Because that’s what Harry does. He fucks up  _everything_.  

"Harry?" Nick asks, still quiet. 

"Sorry," Harry chokes out, pulling back and sitting up on the bed, putting his knees up to his chest. He might cry. He doesn’t want to. "Sorry." 

"Oh, god, you don’t have to say - hey, hey, don’t. Don’t cry, love-" 

He can’t help it, though, a sob pushing its way up in his chest, making his throat hurt. Nick sits up and puts an arm round his shoulders. 

He’s too fucking nice. Harry hates it. 

But that doesn’t stop him from tucking his face into Nick’s neck, letting him cuddle Harry closer. 

"Ohh, god," Nick repeats, low. "Please don’t cry, don’t cry." 

"I h-hate it," Harry manages to say, his breath shaking in and out of his chest. "I hate it here,  _god_ , please-“ 

It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. Because of course it is - who the hell else would he say it to? 

"Fuck, I bet you do," Nick says, into the top of his head. "Nothing here but a Subway and a grotty little bar and a load of creepy old men who pay you to suck their five dollar foot-longs-" 

Harry sobs, and then laughs, and then sobs again at the fact that he’s laughing. 

Nick pulls back, looking the slightest bit delighted at getting a laugh out of him. 

"God, sorry, that was rude," he says, not sounding sorry. 

Harry just lets out another whimper, helpless and loud. 

"Ohh," Nick says, wincing, pulling him close again, petting his hair. "Oh, god. Don’t cry. Here, uh, tell me, okay? Where do you want to go?"

Harry’s still choking on his own breath, his throat and nose burning from tears. He tries to calm himself down, tries to breathe slowly, Nick warm and solid next to him. 

"Anywhere," Nick murmurs. "Tell me where you want to go." 

"H-home," Harry chokes out, and starts sobbing again. "Want to go home." 

"Ohh, love," Nick breathes, pulling him closer. "Oh, god, I bet you do. Poor love. Hey, it’s alright, shh." 

Harry can’t stop coughing out these terrible, wet sobs into Nick’s shirt. It’s so stupid. He hasn’t cried in months. 

"Hey," Nick says again, rubbing his back. "Sh-shhh. You’re gonna be alright, Harry Styles." 

He’s warm and solid and Harry’s head throbs with the knowledge that Nick’s  _wrong_. Harry’s not alright. Harry’s fucked up, to the core, and that isn’t gonna go away- 

"Not," he chokes out. "Not alright." 

"You will be." Nick clutches him tighter. 

"Hey," he says, soft into Harry’s ear. "Hey, let’s get you home, then. Let’s get you back to England, if that’s where you want to be." 

Harry looks up at him, wiping a hand over his face. 

"How?" he says, and nearly starts to cry again. He sucks in a hard breath to keep it from spilling over. 

"Dunno yet," Nick says, his eyes fierce. He strokes a piece of hair from Harry’s forehead. "But we'll figure it out." 

"I’m fucked up," Harry says, thickly. "I’m - messed up." 

"You’re an infant, practically. It happens." Nick rubs a thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. "Everyone fucks up. You just did it big, kiddo, you went to another continent and everything." 

Harry’s head hurts even more, with confusion now. He’s not - a kid, he’s not a good kid. He’s so far away from that now, and this is his life. Nick’s treating him like he’s gotten drunk at a club in Cheshire and needs a ride home. Like he’s some dumb kid with a minor fuck-up under his belt.

"I don’t know how to fix it," he says, sniffing in hard. "I don’t know-" 

"We’re gonna get you home," Nick says softly, touching underneath Harry’s eye, the skin hot and sensitive from crying. "And you can figure it out there." 

"At home," Harry says roughly, thinking of it. His mum, his stepdad, his sister. The cat. Oh, god. His chest heaves again, and Nick holds him steady. 

"Yeah," Nick says, smiling at him, eyes dark, his face gentle and sad. "Chin up, kiddo. We’ll get you home." 


End file.
